Dear One’s Diary,
Terribly busy day today; one is absolutely knackered. I was rudely awoken at an ungodly hour by Philip poking me in the back with his cock. He always gets randy when we’re sleeping in a foreign bedroom. He once joked about keeping a list called “Places I’ve Had Sex with the Queen” but I’m not sure that it’s a joke any more. After dealing with him, I had just about enough time to shower and shave my legs before we were off to the Guinness Storehouse. I’m not much of a stout person; I prefer vodka, gin, brandy, whiskey, whisky, bourbon, absinthe, wine, tequila and my old favourite Sambuca – so I declined the opportunity to taste some of Ireland’s famous tipple. Philip was quite tempted though, until he saw me glowering. What with his tenacious desire to apprehend Lord Mountbatten’s killers on this trip, I thought it best to prevent him imbibing anything that would contribute to increased rambunctiousness on his part.
Following our tour of the stoutery, we were off to the imaginatively titled Government Buildings where I was shown around by that Pinocchio fellow I met yesterday. Sweet divine mother of Christ, he is extraordinarily dull. I can’t recall a single word he mumbled other than the fact that he repeated the phrase “Ireland is open for business” a few dozen times. He may have also mentioned a 5-point plan, but I was too busy admiring the handsome man in the portrait overhead us. Michael Collins, or something. He looked tall. I like my men tall.
Next up was the War Memorial Garden, where I laid a wreath in honour of the Irish who died fighting the Krauts in both wars. Visiting such memorials is necessary to keep people off my family’s deep, dark secret: that we are actually of the House of Saxe-Coburg-Goethe. Mercifully, no one has ever found that out. My family is very good at keeping secrets. For example, I’m still amazed no one has yet discovered we have Diana locked up in the Tower. The skank.
Following that we visited Croke Park, where the Irish play some of their traditional games. I had no idea they had so many original sports – Irish Hockey, Irish Hockey for Lesbians, Irish Football and something called Handle-the-Ball. I was quite interested in the Irish Hockey Stick, as it was quite similar to the shinty stick I used to beat Charles with when he was a lad. And still occasionally do. I was quite tempted to take it to the protestors outside but Philip reminded me that it wouldn’t be good PR to have the monarch herself slaughter a handful of natives 90 years after a similar incident by overzealous constables acting in Grandpapa’s name. A different time, a different place and I would have bashed their fucking heads in, I can tell you that much.
The final event of the day was a State Dinner. I was seated near that bore Cameron but at least Hague was nowhere to be seen. The shiny-headed bollocks was probably innocently sleeping on the floor of an aide’s hotel room, no doubt. Speaking of sexual impropriety, I also noted the presence of Iris Robinson, the scarlet woman of Strangford. I made sure to grasp Philip tightly when she was nearby. One can never be too cautious when one is in the presence of a wanton woman, as I learned that terrible Christmas when Diana attempted to get over-familiar with one’s Philip. The skank. I delivered a well-received speech; I made the joke about Stephen Hawking and the vibrator which always goes down a treat at these sorts of gatherings, and quickly retired to my chambers before Cameron could grab me for some photo opportunities. I honestly never thought I’d miss Gordon Brown, or Blinky as I liked to call him.
We have a much more sedate day planned for tomorrow; we’re to visit the National Stud to meet some of Camilla’s distant relatives. I’d best be on my guard though; they might be in cahoots with Charles.
Is mise,
Lizzie
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